


heaven knows how I loved you

by Frenchibi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, Fluff, I'm soft and so is this, M/M, Prompts are open y'all!!, from experience 90 percent of this will be fluff, soft, specific warnings before each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20057539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: Collection of (mostly soft) Good Omens/Ineffable husbands drabbles and shorter fics!Feel free to send requests :DCh.1: Aziraphale can't believe how lucky he is.





	1. I'm going home

**Author's Note:**

> > Tell me where the good men go, before I wash away  
Walk me down the old brick road, so I can die where I met you  
Hold me like we're going home, turn your tears to rain  
bury me, beautiful - [heaven knows](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idN7I7qEt6E) how I loved you

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it.

It’s only been a week, so of course it’s still new and strange, but honestly, Aziraphale doesn’t think he’ll ever be over it.

He twists the ring on his finger, just something to do with his hands that have always been fidgety, ever since the beginning. Just another small habit formed.

(This ring’s smooth, different than the one he used to wear on his pinkie finger. Foreign, still, but _right_.)

Not much has changed, even though everything has, and it doesn’t make sense. He feels the same, but also like he’ll never be the same again. He can’t believe this is his new reality.

It’s the small things, more than anything.

The walking hand in hand – they’ve done it before. It’s happened. But now, when they go somewhere, Crowley will hold out his hand even before they open the door (_their _door). They step outside together, stroll through their front garden. Crowley waves lazily at the neighbour to their right, out mowing her lawn. She’s a kind old lady, a twinkle in the way she smiles. Doesn’t bat an eye, at anything at all. Took a liking to them.

Aziraphale smiles at her greeting, but he’s distracted by fingers brushing his ring, the soft clink of metal against identical metal. How can he ever be used to this?

Crowley orders from him, at their favourite place. He makes reservations in their name, brightly says, “my husband and I, we’d like a table,” like he doesn’t know Aziraphale’s heart is clawing its way out his throat; husband, _husband,_ just like that-

It’s not something he wants to get used to. Six thousand years, and he wants his heart to never calm down at these words, these actions. He wants to always remember how they got here. He wants it to always matter.

It’s something he wants to get used to though, too. To feel he deserves this. That this is right and Crowley wants him, will still want him when six more millennia have passed. That novelty isn’t what makes them stick, it’s just the novelty of sticking that’s affecting him, is all. The novelty of how _easy_ it is to love Crowley, and to be loved by him.

Crowley’s hand on his knee under the table, his whole body angled towards him, that subconscious-happy smile on his lips. Raised eyebrows at the mutual staring. A bashful sort of smile on the angel’s part, and a reassuring squeeze of his fingers in response.

_God, I love you, I love you,_ he thinks. _Oh, you’re all that matters._

On a bench out by the sea, Crowley’s arm is sprawled carelessly behind Aziraphale’s back, fingers toying with his collar as they watch the waves and chat. Aziraphale loses his train of thought four times, sputters, fumbles, and all Crowley does is smile, in infinite patience. It’s so easy to be patient when they’re no longer on a ticking clock.

They get up to leave and Crowley pulls him in by the waist, arm lazily slung around him like he’s done this every day since the beginning of time. Aziraphale doesn’t know how to walk like this, their hips keep knocking together but he’d rather die than pull away. Back on the road, he links their arms instead, taking care to move in just as close, _I’m not drawing back, I’m right here, right here-_

They perch on their sofa together, later, shoes kicked off and socked feet pulled close for warmth. Aziraphale reads, with the warm weight of Crowley tucked into his side. Like he’s always been there, really. (Hasn’t he? Hasn’t he?) This, more than anything, feels right.

Crowley’s fingers trace patterns on his thigh, innocent and idle, and Aziraphale forgets to breathe, earning a confused sort of hum as his body remembers and catches him off guard.

“…alright, angel?” Crowley asks, fingers never slowing, just there, warm and soft.

“Mmh. Just…_ husbands_,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t hide the wonder, nor does he want to.

A squeeze, then, to the thigh, and the fondest of smiles. Crowley shifts, takes his hand instead, fiddles with his fingers.

“Keep touchin’ you,” he confides, “to convince myself it’s real.”

Aziraphale nods, threads their fingers. “Please don’t stop.”

Crowley wears the pinkie ring now, on his other ring finger. Something of his. A promise, made before their vows, the first promise. _Marry me, angel._ He’s never slipped it off.

The angel’s fingers brush it, familiar and warm. In good hands. The best hands, they hold everything with such care. He’ll gladly give himself to them, following after.


	2. up to something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Crowley is up to something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on an anonymous prompt on tumblr:
> 
> "[...] how about, One is planning a surprise of some sort for the other, and is trying to keep it a secret but is lowkey terrible. pick whoever you want for each role."
> 
> Thank you very much!!

Crowley is up to something.

Aziraphale knows this with some certainty. Now, obviously, as a literal demon and force of chaos he is, by definition, always _up to something,_ but particularly in light of recent events he’s been way less conspicuous about it, until now. Less of that _don’t look now but I might make you miss your bus and drop your favourite book in the rain _kind of thing that was always palpable to Aziraphale, probably by virtue of his angelic senses, but also just by virtue of knowing Crowley quite well (despite denying it) and being able to recognize when the _thing_ Crowley happened to be up to was particularly, well… dastardly.

Not that Crowley has ever done anything truly despicable. Not since- well, ever. The apple thing was arguably a catalyst for… well, everything, but Aziraphale can and will argue that free will and _knowing the difference_ are not inherently good or bad things, in the long run. Really, they have Crowley to thank for humanity, don’t they?

The point, he argues with himself, pointedly ignoring the clattering from behind the next few shelves as he delicately turns a page of the book in his lap, is that for the first time since _well_ before the Apocalypse that Wasn’t, Crowley is _up to something_ in that old, traditional sense of the phrase. Concocting some sort of plan. And trying very, very hard to pretend that he isn’t.

It’s incredibly ridiculous, really, because Aziraphale had expected Crowley to be aware of the fact that he can sense the slightest change in the demon’s attitude, and that even the _idea_ of making any kind of mischief would not pass without his knowledge. As an angel (and, again, a Crowley-connoisseur), Aziraphale is incredibly aware of these shifts and he hasn’t exactly been hiding it. Careful to always shoot Crowley a look if he happened to be around when one of them took place, when a hint of _oh, I could mildly inconvenience SO many people with this_ even crossed the demon’s mind. Careful to always look appropriately scandalized, even if in some instances, not-quite-deeply-enough under the surface, he might have enjoyed witnessing some of the subtle discomfort Crowley is prone to causing. Especially to people, who, well. Might kind of be pricks, no offense.

Well, maybe some offense. The lines are blurry, and honestly, after everything that’s happened, Heaven and its morality can bugger off.

Which doesn’t change the fact that Aziraphale is quite unsettled by this whole _up to something_ business. He knows Crowley is no longer really involved with hell, so there is no conceivable reason he should be doing something truly worrying, something questionable, except for his own enjoyment – and that idea doesn’t sit quite well with Aziraphale. Sure, Crowley has always been _wily,_ but in a charming way, in an _I can’t even help it, angel_ kind of way, but not for the particular enjoyment of making other people’s lives miserable. Slightly unpleasant, maybe.

If that’s the only goal, he might just be succeeding.

Aziraphale rereads the same sentence for the third time before closing his eyes and sighing. It’s no use.

“Crowley,” he says, with the air of a parent to a two-year-old, gently reprimanding their toddler for the fifth time for trying to eat play-doh.

There’s a particularly loud clattering sound that can only mean _something falling,_ followed by some scrambling, and then the demon’s slightly flushed face pokes around the edge of the nearest bookshelf.

“D’you say something, angel?”

“…what on earth are you doing back there?” He fights to keep his voice neutral – Crowley _knows_ how he feels about his collection, and how upset he’d be if any of his priceless volumes were damaged. He doesn’t need to say it again.

“Uh,” Crowley says, eloquently.

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows, and lowers his book. “I do hope you’re not breaking anything-”

“Oh, no, not to worry, angel, not to worry-”

“…because it sounds like you’re making quite the mess of my shop. What are you up to?”

Crowley grins a grin that Aziraphale could only describe as _sheepish,_ and it feels incredibly out of place on his face.

“…would you believe me if I said ‘nothing’, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “Certainly not, with the racket you’re causing.”

Crowley takes a small step out from behind the shelf, rubbing the back of his neck as he does so, and looking quite bashful now. “…and if I asked you to bear with it for a bit, and to trust me…?”

Well. That’s new.

“You’re not playing one of these practical jokes on me, are you, Crowley? Because I’ll have you know I do _not_ take kindly to people messing with my things-”

Even before the sentence fully leaves his mouth, he knows it was the wrong thing to say. Something like vulnerability flashes across Crowley’s face – he’s quick to cover it up with a sway of his hips and a lazy smile, but Aziraphale catches it nonetheless, and bites his tongue.

“Right, yeah. I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t let me distract you from your reading – I’ll keep it down.”

“Keep _what _down-”

“Nothing, angel, nothing at all.”

He makes to move away, and Aziraphale, though reluctant, begins to rise from his chair.

“Crowley-”

It happens so fast, all he feels is the rush of air and then Crowley is right beside him, pushing him back down into the chair by the shoulders.

“Ah- see, I’m gonna need you to not… leave this chair for a bit.”

“Wh-”

“I know it’s outlandish to trust a demon, but maybe this once you can give me the benefit of the doubt? Maybe believe that there is absolutely nothing going on behind these shelves – you never bloody leave the room, so there wasn’t really a way around this-”

“But-”

“Christ’s sake, angel, just- read your bloody book and let me do this!”

He gets loud there, towards the end, and Aziraphale flinches, ever so slightly. Crowley visibly softens; a hint of regret, perhaps something like shame.

“Look- you’re… you’re really hard to surprise, but I’m trying.”

Even as he says it, Aziraphale realizes his mistake. What he’d taken for malice, for an aura of mischief, of plotting – it falls away like the obvious cover that it always was (and how could it have been anything else), leaving behind only what’s genuinely emanating from Crowley now, clearly palpable to Aziraphale’s angelic senses: apprehension, a flutter of nerves, a spring coiled tight in anticipation. Something like excitement, hiding a tiny twinge of fear, and a large dollop of hope to top it all off.

Oh.

“…oh,” Aziraphale says softly.

There’s something else, too, underneath it all, and he catches it before Crowley can cover it up. It’s _hurt._

Aziraphale closes his book, raises his hands to place them over Crowley’s.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I- I shouldn’t have mistrusted you.”

Crowley gives that self-deprecating half-shrug that Aziraphale is way too used to seeing. “S’alright, angel. ‘m a demon, after all. No good for trusting, all that jazz.”

He shakes his head. “I trust you more than anyone else in this universe, Crowley.”

“…unless you think I’m messing with your books,” Crowley amends, but he’s smiling, and it feels a little more genuine. Aziraphale knows he can’t undo the damage he’s just done by way of a simple apology. He should have known to give Crowley the benefit of the doubt – he should have known to do that for centuries, now. Maybe always.

“No modifiers,” he says. “Not… not _unless._ I do, in everything. With my life.”

Anything else is unacceptable by now. They’ve saved each other’s lives countless times.

“Don’t get all mushy on me,” Crowley says with feigned distaste. “S’not that big a deal. Wanted you thinking I was up to something, after all. To hide the surprise. Guess it was a little too effective.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Perhaps a tad.”

“…so, would you… just give me another couple of minutes? So I can finish up?”

His smile widens, and he returns his hands to the book in his lap. “I have no idea whatsoever what you might be referring to. I’m just reading, is all.”

Crowley lingers, just long enough for Aziraphale to get caught in the incredibly fond expression on his face.

“…thanks, angel.”

Then he gives his shoulders a short squeeze and pushes away, back around the nearest shelf and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I know this is kind of a cop-out but I wasn't sure what I wanted Crowley to be doing, really? Is he cooking a meal, is it their anniversary or something? Did he build a bookshelf? Bring over his plants? Is he planning to /propose/??? I have no idea. If you want a continuation of this (or if you want any other good omens/ineffable husbands fic) leave me an ask on tunglr dot hell (@frenchibi)!! Prompts very welcome!)


End file.
